Even in silence, some habits refuse to die.
I woke up in the same clothes I wore yesterday, cloakless, bootless, this time. My hand instinctively reached out to the bedside, searching for something that wasn't there.
A sword.
For years, it had always been there. By my bed. At my side. Even during the long wagon journey with Berun, I found myself groping for it in the dark, expecting cold steel and leather. This morning was no different.
I sat still, letting the weight of the moment settle.
Then I turned to the window. The sky was still dark, the sun not yet risen. The glass reflected my outline more than it showed the world beyond.
"Still stuck in the old rhythm," I muttered. "Waking early. Reaching for a weapon. Guess that doesn't just fade away. Not in a day."
I sighed, sat upright, and fixed the bedsheets. I stretched, rolled my shoulders, hopped lightly in place to wake the body. The room was silent except for the light thuds of my bare feet on wood.
I walked to the wash basin near the corner and splashed cold water on my face. It hit like a soldier's slap before battle, jolting, but familiar.
I looked up, into the mirror. Tired eyes. Worn face. A man still alive, but not yet living.
"Alright, Eron Weldan," I said quietly to my reflection. "You are not just someone. You are, you."
The words felt strange coming out, like armor worn the wrong way. But I needed them. A small reassurance, even if hollow.
I sat down, knee to the wooden floor, and tugged on my brown leather boots. They creaked as they tightened around my ankles, old, worn in, and familiar. Then I stood, walked to the door, and slowly turned the knob. Quietly. Didn't want to bother anyone on my first morning here.
Then—
"Hello! Eron! Have you eate—?!"
Instinct kicked in.
I lunged.
In a blink, I tackled the figure to the ground, pinned them, raised my elbow, ready to end it in one strike. My body moved faster than thought. Breath controlled. Elbow cocked. Kill zone in sight.
Then I saw the face.
"Woah—?! What the hell?! Calm down, Eron! It's me! Jeren! The guy you talked to yesterday!" he blurted out, eyes wide in panic, voice cracking mid-sentence.
He smiled, barely. Still shaken. Still trying not to panic.
I froze. Reality caught up with me.
I stepped back and offered a hand.
"Sorry," I said, helping him up.
Jeren dusted himself off. "What was that all about?"
"Just, confused for a moment," I said. "That was my fault. I apologize."
"Man, no need to be so formal," he replied, brushing leaves off his shoulder. "But seriously? Warriors like you get scared too?"
I looked at him.
He grinned, straightened his back, locked his arms to his sides like a soldier, chin up like he was saluting.
"Commander Weldan," he said with theatrical seriousness, "status report from the field, specifically the field right outside your front door. Current intel confirms sun is rising, no sign of ambush, and all threats appear to be nonexistent."
He stood stiff as a board, lips twitching to hold back a grin.
I sighed, trying not to smile. I used to think that kind of thing was cool. A decade ago, I was that kid.
"Alright, alright. Cut it out," I said. "How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About me."
He broke character and chuckled. "Lord Jaheim told me last night. I'm supposed to, y'know, keep an eye on you for the next few days. Make sure you settle in fine. But I got too excited. Couldn't wait."
He shrugged. "I'm a morning bird like you. No military background, though. Not honed in the ways of blood and battle." He puffed his chest out, grinning. "But in the ways of turnips, tomatoes, and wheat? Absolutely honed. Razor sharp."
He laughed at his own joke, slapping his own thigh.
I narrowed my eyes. "Wait, he told you everything?"
Then I remembered, I never told Jaheim not to share it.
"Only to me," Jeren said, waving his hand like it was nothing. "He said I'm the only one allowed to know. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
"Why?" I asked.
He leaned on one leg, thoughtful now.
"Because," he said, "you came here for a reason. You didn't want to be a commander anymore. Didn't want to be looked at like a weapon. Didn't want people whispering your name like it carried ghosts. You just want to live, right? Ordinary life. Plain old Eron."
I stayed silent.
He read it in my eyes.
"Lord Jaheim respects that," Jeren said. "And so do I."
I nodded, slowly. "Right. I was just about to go for a jog along the village's edge."
His face lit up. "Wait, really?!"
He straightened his shirt and clasped his hands together like a child begging for a toy.
"Would you take me as your guide?! Please?! Please?! Please?"
The village was still.
No smoke from chimneys yet. No barking dogs. No footsteps or voices. Just a quiet blue haze in the air, half-night, half-morning. The sun still hadn't breached the hills.
Jeren led the way, hands tucked behind his head, walking backwards so he could still face me. "See? Told you I'm a morning bird," he whispered with a grin. "Only ones awake now are the roosters. And you."
"And you," I said.
He chuckled. "Fair."
We passed empty homes with thatched roofs. Fences still damp with morning dew. Grass pressed down by boots from yesterday, but no new prints. My own boots made the only sound, soft thuds on packed dirt.
"I usually come out here just to think," Jeren said. "No one asks anything of you at this hour. It's like the world's still deciding whether or not to wake up."
I nodded, listening.
He pointed ahead. "That way's the village edge. Past that is mostly farmland. Sheep pens. A pond further down. Some say foxes drink from it when no one's looking."
We kept walking. The sky behind us began to pale, just barely.
"Back when I was a kid," he continued, "I used to think the sun had to be called out. Like, it wouldn't rise unless someone was out here, waiting for it."
I looked at him.
He smiled, sheepishly. "Yeah. Silly. But I still come out here sometimes. Just in case it forgets."
I let out a soft breath through my nose. Not quite a laugh, but almost.
"You're not what I expected," I said.
"What, me?"
"Yes."
"What did you expect?"
"Silence. Isolation. A place to disappear into."
Jeren shrugged. "You'll get some of that too. This village has its quiet corners. But sometimes quiet's louder than noise. And solitude, well, it can look a lot like loneliness, if you're not careful."
We reached a small wooden fence overlooking a slope. Beyond it, the valley yawned open. Thin fog clung to the lowlands. The sky was starting to shift, indigo into gray, hints of orange pushing through.
The edge of the world.
I leaned against the fence. Jeren climbed up and sat on it, legs swinging.
"I don't know what I'm doing here," I said, voice low.
"I know," he replied. "But you showed up. That counts for something."
We both fell silent. Birds started to chirp in the distance.
Jeren kept talking as we walked. Not in a bothersome way, just enough to fill the space. He pointed, explained, then moved on. And I listened.
"This here's Lord Jaheim's place again," he said, waving toward the wooden house with the slanted roof. "You already know that one. But in case you ever need to talk to him, he's usually out back early mornings feeding the goats. Doesn't like knocking."
Noted.
We passed a wide clearing. "This is the main field. A lot of us take turns here. Wheat, mostly. Some barley. In autumn, we rotate with cabbage and turnips."
He kept walking. I followed, boots soft against the damp earth.
"To the left here, see that slope? Leads down to the livestock pens. Sheep, goats, a couple cows. We try to keep 'em on the west side so the wind doesn't carry the smell too deep into the village."
Another nod from me.
He pointed ahead. "Pond's that way. It's not deep, but it's clean. Good for washing tools, sometimes bathing. If you need cleaner water, you'll want the river."
We took a short trail. Trees stood quiet along both sides. He motioned again. "There. Past that bend's the river. It's gentle most months. But don't cross it during the flood season. Last year we lost two goats that got curious."
I made a mental map of it all, chief's house, field, pond, livestock, river. This would be my life now. No walls. No watchtowers. Just earth, water, people.
He showed me the barn next. Wooden, well-kept. "We store shared tools here. Community use. If you need something, just ask. Or better yet, ask old man Bram. He's usually here anyway. You'll hear him before you see him."
"Noted," I said.
He turned to look at me. "You're quiet."
"I'm always quiet."
He grinned. "Fair."
We made our way back to the fence overlooking the valley. The sky had softened into orange now. Smoke finally rose from a few chimneys. The village was waking.
"I'm not trying to overwhelm you," Jeren said after a while. "Just thought you'd want to know where things are. Settling in's easier when the place feels familiar."
I looked out at the horizon, the mountains in the far distance, the mist burning off as light broke through.
"You showed me everything I needed to know," I said.
"Oh, wait," I said, something striking my mind, same question I had yesterday but forgot to ask. "Does this village have some sort of militia? A defense force? And what about elder councils? Advisors to the chief?"
It had slipped past me during my talk with Lord Jaheim. I'd been too focused on explaining myself.
"For defense?" Jeren shook his head with a half-smile. "Nope. We don't have a militia. No swords, no drills, no captains. As for councils, nah. We don't really do that either."
I raised a brow. "No elders? Just Lord Jaheim?"
"Yep. Just him. And honestly? That's all we need," he said with conviction. "Too many voices just lead to arguing. One man with a clear head is better than a pack all tugging in different directions."
Strange. Every village I'd been to before had some system in place, layers of roles and people with titles. This one was different. No military presence. No elders. No chains of command.
But maybe, they didn't need it.
Newham's far from the kingdom lines. Far from raiders, politics, shifting borders, or the roar of armies. Maybe that was all the defense they ever needed, distance.
"So this village is underdeveloped? Structurally, I mean," I asked.
Jeren squinted at me, not offended, just amused. "Underdeveloped? Our fields grow fine. Our stores are full. Our kids sleep well. We don't need everything, Eron. We just need enough. Enough to live without fear, without greed. That's more than most kingdoms have."
I nodded in silence. I couldn't argue with that.
Jeren looked at me, head tilted, thoughtful.
"Wanna see the sunrise?"
I followed his gaze. The sky had begun to shift, gold bleeding into blue on the horizon.
"Hm," I grunted, and that was enough.
We walked to the very edge of Newham, where farmland gave way to rolling hills and the earth opened wide. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't ask anything of you.
And then it came. Slow and sure. The sun breaking over the rim of the world. It poured light gently over the fields, the trees, the rooftops behind us. No bells. No horns. No fanfare.
Just light. And warmth.
"Feels great, yeah?" Jeren said, arms crossed, a little grin on his face.
"Yeah," I said, watching the gold stretch long across the land.
It did feel great. And more than that, it felt honest. There was no great lesson in the light. No message in the morning breeze. It was just there. Simple. Steady.
Everything doesn't have to have meaning right away. Sometimes, where we are, is what matters.
Jeren turned to me.
"So, how does your first day living in Newham feel so far?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stood there, watching the sun crest higher. Its warmth touched my face, my arms. My breath came slow. For once, not out of caution. Not because I was hiding something or calculating what to say next.
"I don't know yet," I finally said. "It's quiet. That's new for me."
Jeren nodded, letting the silence hang between us without trying to fill it.
"But it's good," I added. "Strange, but good. Like standing still after running for years."
Jeren smiled. "That's how it starts."
I glanced at him. "How what starts?"
He shrugged. "Peace. Or something close to it."
I looked back toward the light stretching across the horizon. Toward the hills, the trees, and beyond them, the long, unseen road that led back to the world I left behind.
I nodded.
"Maybe," I said.
Maybe.
"Oi, young Jeren."
Both of us turned toward the voice at the same time.
"Ohh! Old man Bram!"
So this is old man Bram, the one Jeren mentioned earlier. Gray hair thinned out, skin creased from age and sun, spine curled like a drawn bow. He walked with a wooden stick that looked just as tired as he was. His tunic and pants, threadbare and faded, probably had more years on them than most folks in this village.
"I told you," Bram said, tapping Jeren's head with the stick, "to get the steel tools, the wooden ones, the copper, and even the silver ones ready. Every day, I remind you. Repeatedly. But you seem to be slacking off every start of the day. Is something bugging you, young Jeren?"
"None!" Jeren said quickly, standing straight like a child caught red-handed.
I watched as Bram scolded him, like a father would, or maybe a stubborn old teacher who never stopped believing his student might get it right one day.
Then Bram looked at me. There was interest behind those wrinkled eyes. Not suspicion. Not caution. Just quiet curiosity.
"Is he your friend?" Bram asked.
"Yes!" Jeren answered with a grin.
"Not you." Bram tapped him again, which earned a quiet "ow" as Jeren rubbed his head. Bram kept his gaze on me.
"Young man? I haven't seen you around. Who are you?"
My turn, huh?
Well, if peace comes with knowing people, then so be it. I'm not afraid of it, not anymore. Or maybe I am, just less than I used to be.
And Jeren, he was looking at me like he already decided to like me. That was rare.
"Eron Walden, sir. But please, just call me Eron," I said, bowing my head slightly. Respect where it's due. Not all elders deserve it, but something about Bram said he'd earned it.
"Ereon... Eron..." Bram muttered, testing the name on his tongue like it was foreign.
"Old man Bram, just what are you doing?" Jeren asked, still rubbing his head.
Bram thwacked him again, not gently. "I'm trying to remember his name. Eron. Don't interrupt me, young Jeren."
He squinted at me while brushing his gray hair back. Not judgmental, just old eyes focusing on something unfamiliar.
"I'm actually new here, sir," I said. "First day. Arrived yesterday and spoke with the chief. He gave me his permission to settle here."
"Ahh, you've already faced young Jaheim. Then it's all good," Bram said with a satisfied nod. "Well then, we've got to keep moving. Are you two done talking, conversing, chatting, loitering?"
"Yes, we actually are. Sorry for the bother, sir," I said.
"Oh, please. Just call me Old Bram. Titles weigh too much on a man's back at this age." He turned slowly, shifting the cane as he did. "Now come on, young Jeren. We've got tools to organize and barns to tend to. These hands won't move on their own."
"Alright, alright. Just don't go sprinting ahead of me," Jeren joked as he caught up.
Before they got too far, Jeren turned around and looked at me over his shoulder.
"I'll see you again tomorrow, alright? Just make sure you eat. That's literally part of my commission from Lord Jaheim, making sure you eat. Don't make me fail my mission."
"Got it," I said.
I watched them go, side by side. One hunched with time. The other still bright-eyed. Their footsteps were slow, but steady.
I stayed a little longer at the edge of the village, where the wind met the hill and the light hadn't quite broken the dark.
The sun was still only halfway risen, low and patient, like it wasn't in a hurry to burn the world awake.
I stood there. Breathing.
Maybe this is what peace actually looks like. Not a treaty. Not silence after victory. Just this light stretching across a field that doesn't care who ruled the land before it. A quiet place doesn't fix a broken man. But it reminds him that stillness exists. That somewhere, not everything is screaming.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Let it sink in.
Then I turned around.
People were stepping out of their doors now. Some barefoot, scratching their heads. Some already tying aprons, lifting buckets. Children rubbing their eyes. Old folks leaning on walls. A few dogs barking like they were making sure the day would actually start.
The village was waking.
I walked back toward the house. The wind had calmed down. The dirt path was dry. My boots made quiet sounds with each step, steady, rhythmical, almost like marching. Except there was no destination to conquer. Just a front door, and a morning to figure out.
When I stepped inside, the quiet followed me.
No clanging armor. No briefing tents. No one waiting for orders. Just wood. Clean air. A roof. A table. A kitchen.
I looked around like I'd entered a foreign land.
Alright, breakfast.
I walked over to the kitchen area. Neatly arranged utensils. Pots. A fire pit. Some matches. A coldbox humming faintly, preserving meat, vegetables, and a few wrapped bread loaves. It was well-stocked, as promised. Thoughtful even. Efficient.
I crouched and stared at the fire pit.
"Right," I muttered. "Now how do I do this without a quartermaster or cook nearby?"
I struck a match. It broke. Another. It lit, then burned out because I froze. Third one took. I lit the fire. Small victory. Almost saluted myself.
I grabbed some bread. Then stared at it.
Toasted bread. Should be simple. Heat. Hold. Done.
Five minutes later, I was fanning smoke out the window with a plate and waving at an imaginary smoke demon like I was in combat again.
"Why does everything burn so fast when you actually want it to stay?" I muttered, holding a slightly blackened piece of bread like it was a piece of enemy armor.
I tried eggs next. Cracked one. Half the shell went in.
"Brilliant. Truly a masterwork," I said to myself.
Still, I made it work. Scraped off the char. Picked out the shell. Fried the second egg slower. Almost looked right this time. Might've even smiled a little.
I sat down at the small wooden table. A plate of halfway decent breakfast in front of me.
Not much. But I made it.
My hands were still twitchy, muscle memory from holding a sword, a bow, a spear, not a spatula. But it felt different. Good, maybe. Or just new.
I took a bite.
Not great.
But warm.
"Now that I think about it," I said quietly, chewing another bite. "I've already met a lot of people, haven't I?"
I counted them off in my head, tapping a finger against the wooden table with each name.
"Marn. The blacksmith. Strong arms, stronger grip. Rena, the baker with flour on her sleeves and warmth in her tone. Elma, that old woman who smiled when I passed her garden. Bram, of course. Gruff, brittle, but sharp as ever."
I paused.
"All of them. Even if I didn't speak to them all, still. That's progress, isn't it?"
I leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath me. Took another bite. Chewed slowly.
Then noise. Light laughter. A thud of feet.
A blur of motion passed my window. Then another. Then three more, darting by like sparrows. I turned and watched, the fork still in my hand, frozen in place.
Children. Four of them. Maybe five. Running in loops through the dirt path outside my home. One wore a red scarf that flapped behind him like a cape. Another was laughing so hard she nearly tripped, but caught herself. They yelled names. Shouted silly things. Nothing serious. Just being alive.
I watched them.
For a while, I didn't move.
"Kids sure are lively," I muttered, setting the fork down.
I sat there, hands folded. Elbows on the table. Then the thought came, dry and a little bitter.
"Damn. I'm just an old man in his mid-twenties."
I laughed, but it didn't have weight.
"Wait, is being in your mid-twenties even old? It can't be."
I ran a hand through my hair, felt the roughness in my palms.
"I'm not that old. I just look and think old."
I stood and walked toward the window, watching the children vanish around a corner again. They were shouting something about dragons, maybe. Or tag. Or both.
I leaned my forearm against the wooden sill.
Back then, when I was their age, what was I doing?
The images came without warning.
A spear in my hands. Too tall for me at first, and yet I carried it. A sword that felt heavier than I could manage, but I was told to not let it drop. The crack of practice shields. The sting of wooden blades against my arms. My thighs. My ribs. Endless drills at dawn. Dirt beneath my nails. Blood from a cut that wasn't bandaged until hours later.
No races. No dragon games.
At their age, I wasn't running for fun. I was running laps as punishment. Holding stones in both hands for 'balance and strength.' No one told me stories at night. I was too busy memorizing formations. Practicing bow tension. Getting corrected for how I stood. How I blinked. How I hesitated.
"Again," they'd say. "Do it again. No flinching."
By the time I could write full sentences, I was sketching kill zones. Pressure points. Weak spots in armor. They called it training. Said I was gifted. Said I had a future.
I swallowed.
Gifted. I suppose. If losing a childhood counts as a gift.
I stared at the path they'd run down, still faintly hearing the echoes of their laughter. A part of me wanted to open the door. Walk out. Say something. But I didn't.
Instead, I whispered to the window, to no one in particular.
"I wonder what I would've been like if I had just played, once."
I let the silence settle. Let it stay there. Then I stepped back from the window, took a breath, and sat down again.
The egg was cold now. Didn't matter. I finished it anyway.
"What am I even doing?"
I looked down at the empty plate. Cold crumbs. An untouched cup of water.
"Starting the day like this. So gloomy."
My voice was barely a whisper. Not meant for anyone. Not even for myself, really. Just something to fill the stillness.
"I can't even think of something joyful. Something simple. Something not negative."
The words settled like dust on old armor.
I ran a hand over my face, over the creases near my eyes. Eyes that had seen too much. Eyes that had stopped reacting to horror long before peace ever arrived.
"Pathetic," I muttered.
I leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table now, hands clasped together as if I was about to pray, but there was no prayer in me.
"Even Berun could tell. That old man barely remembers what day it is, and yet, just one glance."
I closed my eyes, saw the wagon again. The way Berun had looked at me when we stopped for rest. He didn't say much, not at first. Just looked. As if reading something carved behind my pupils. Something heavy and quiet and permanent.
"Just by looking at my eyes," I murmured. "He knew."
A silence stretched again.
"Am I even going to recover from this?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
I wasn't sure who I was asking. Or if I wanted an answer at all.
"From how I'm feeling. From what I'm feeling."
It wasn't even a single emotion. That would be easier. I could name it. Anger. Grief. Shame.
But this? This was fog. Thick, cold fog that had wrapped itself around my chest and never let go. It didn't scream. It didn't break things. It just stayed.
There was no war anymore. No orders to bark. No enemies to scan for. No sharp clanging of iron or bone or screaming men.
Just a chair. A plate. A window. A morning that moved on whether I liked it or not. My body had memorized how to survive blades, ambushes, siege lines, exhaustion.
But it never learned how to just, wake up.
And be.
I clenched my jaw, pressed my thumb against the edge of the table. Hard enough to feel something. Anything.
In battle, pain was useful. Kept you awake. Kept you real. But here, it just reminded me I was still a man trying to live without knowing how. Maybe Berun was right. You survive a war by killing. But you only survive peace by living.
And that part, I never learned.
Not yet.
My stomach growled again. Loud this time.
"Damn. I'm hungry again," I muttered, glancing down at the plate I'd already cleaned not ten minutes ago. "Well, it's expected, I guess."
I patted my gut, still solid, not fat, but far from carved like in the old days. Muscle remembers, even if time tries to steal it.
"I need to eat more, replenish more, but where the hell do I even spend those calories now?" I leaned back in the chair and sighed. "Retired from extreme elite physical exhaustion. No more death marches. No more ambushes. Just walking. Jogging. Sitting. Eating."
A pause.
"Huh. I got jokes now," I smirked, shaking my head.
Then, thud!
Something smacked my roof. Sharp and sudden.
I blinked. "What was that?"
I stood up slowly. Body still half-sore from the wagon ride and years of battle wearing down the joints. I walked to the door and opened it.
And immediately, five kids. All staring at me. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like I'd just unsheathed a sword.
"Run! It's the big scary-looking man!" one of them shouted, probably the leader of their tiny pack. And just like that, all five of them turned and bolted. Kicking up dirt and squeals.
I stood there, watching the chaos, mildly offended. Not surprised though.
"I do look like I've killed people," I muttered to myself.
The silence didn't last long.
"Uhm, mister?"
I looked down. Two girls stood near my door, well, one stood. The older one. The younger clung tightly behind her, gripping her arm like a shield. I recognized them. The same girls from yesterday. They'd watched me when I was inside the wagon. Now I knew, they were part of the same crew.
The older girl pointed at my roof. "Our ball got stuck up there," she said, voice small but clear. "My friend threw it really hard. I'm really sorry, mister."
She couldn't have been more than ten. And yet, clear, respectful, honest. Someone raised this one right.
I stepped outside and shut the door behind me.
"Hold on," I said, walking a few paces out to get a good view of the roof.
There it was. Wedged near the edge of the slanted thatch, wobbling dangerously like it might fall off, or roll deeper in.
"How'd it even get up there?"
The girl clasped her hands. "One of my friends threw it too hard. We didn't mean to. I'm really sorry."
I looked back down at her. No panic. No lies. Just an apology straight from the heart. This village might be small, but I was starting to see it had good soil, for food and for people.
"No worries," I said, rotating my shoulders. "Just give me a second."
I stepped back, rolled my neck, then started stretching. Lunges. Leg swings. A few squats.
The girls just stared.
"What are you doing, mister?" the older one finally asked, puzzled. The younger just kept her distance, peeking from behind with wide eyes.
"Just stretching," I said. "Gotta wake the legs up. I'd like to do this in one try."
I took a breath, planted my feet.
Then jumped.
Years of training came back like a whisper. My legs exploded upward. Not graceful, not pretty, but efficient, powerful. I reached the edge of the roof, grabbed the ball, pulled it free, and dropped back down to the dirt.
The landing thudded. A little cloud of dust rose around my boots.
"Woah!" they both gasped.
I turned to them, lowered the ball with both hands, holding it out like some noble relic.
"Here," I said.
The older girl ran forward and took it with both hands, beaming. "Thank you, mister!"
The younger one finally let go of her sister's arm. Stepped forward on her own, still a little wary, but curious now.
I gave them both a nod. "No problem. If that happens again, don't be afraid to knock. Doesn't matter if it's my roof, someone else's roof, or if your ball ends up in a tree halfway across the village. You ask, alright?"
The older one nodded eagerly. "Yes, mister!"
"Good," I said. "Because I'd rather climb a roof than let a ball get lost. And besides," I smirked. "It's good cardio."
The girl laughed.
Then turned to her sister and gave her a playful nudge. They both giggled and began to walk off, tossing the ball between them again, lighter now, like their world just got a little safer.
I watched them go.
Strange.
I'd spent most of my life mastering ways to kill quickly, quietly, efficiently. Yet here I was, lifting a ball off a roof and being thanked like a local hero.
Not a bad trade, really.
Not bad at all.
Then I thought about what just happened.
Helping people.
Not through orders. Not through strategy. Not because someone above me demanded it, or because lives were on the line in the middle of some brutal siege. No medals. No salutes. Just a ball on a roof.
And yet, now that I think about it, this might be the first time I've genuinely and voluntarily helped someone without needing to.
No uniform. No battlefield. Just two girls and a roof.
Strange feeling.
First time, maybe.
But it felt good. Not the proud kind of good. Not ego. Just a steady kind. Quiet. It didn't shout inside me, it just stayed there. Warm. Subtle. Calmer than I expected.
"So this is how it feels like helping people in need?" I muttered to myself, watching the girls disappear behind a bend in the dirt path, ball bouncing between them.
That must be what Jeren felt, I realized. When he showed me around. When he welcomed me. All those small efforts, he didn't have to do any of that. But he did. Maybe not because it was required but because it was right.
It's easy to forget how much that means. How much it can shift something inside you. Just someone giving a damn.
I smiled.
Not a wide smile. Not the kind people notice. Just a subtle one. Still low in the corners, but more genuine than before.
"So this is what it feels like," I repeated, softer this time.
Then stood there a moment longer.
Letting the feeling sit. Letting it stay.
As I stood there, still faintly smiling, something else caught my eye.
An old man. Far down the path. Bent over, trying to push a wooden roller stacked with cut logs, some of them thick, uneven, too heavy for someone his age. His arms were wiry and thin, sleeves rolled up. Seventies, maybe older. Fragile, like a man whose bones have known too many winters.
He strained with each step, one hand on his lower back, the other gripping the side of the roller to keep it from tipping. Not a single person in sight to help him.
I watched for a few seconds.
Then it hit me, I don't really have an occupation anymore, do I?
Not a soldier. Not a commander. No title. No rank. Nothing that ties me to who I used to be.
But maybe, maybe that's the point. Maybe this is the moment I start getting to know myself, not as what I was, but what I might still become. No pressure. No orders. Just a step at a time. Just going with the flow.
I started to jog. Nothing fast, just enough to close the distance.
As I reached him, I called out, "Oh hey! Do you need some help?"
He looked up, a little startled at first, but then his eyes softened.
"Oh, thank you, young man. Thank you very much," he said with a smile lined by age, but still warm. I stepped beside him and took the handle of the roller.
"I'll push," I said. "You just point the way."
He nodded, a bit breathless from earlier effort. "Just down this path, turn right at the corner. Leads straight to the woodshed. We stack 'em there, for cooking, fire, and light. Gotta keep the village running, even slowly."
I looked where he pointed. The path was a little uphill.
"Got it," I said. "Just don't let me get lost, alright?"
It was a terrible joke. Clunky. Cringy, even. But the old man chuckled, not unkindly.
We walked together. Me pushing the weight, him keeping pace with quiet steps beside me.
And just like that, the morning carried on, quiet, simple, and maybe, for the first time in years, peaceful.